


Tremors

by captainodonewithyou



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainodonewithyou/pseuds/captainodonewithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy is pregnant and really, really doesn't need the team to find out. (Future!Fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tremors

“I hope she doesn’t ever want to go through the mists.”

She is warm and settled, pressed tight somewhere cozy between heavy sheets and tangled limbs.  He breathes the quiet sentiment into the place where her neck and shoulder meet, covering over the multitude of kisses he’s already brushed lovingly into the same spot.

There are so _many_ reasons the words cause a lift in her brow.

“She?”

His arm shifts around her waist, thumb still playing gently at the raised skin beneath her ribs that had nearly been the end of her life.

(He’d heard the story, when he found the trio of wounds their first night together.

“Wait, hold up—they shot _Kree bodily fluids_ into your system, on a _whim_?”

“It was a little more than a whim,” she laughed into his chest before peering up at him smiling through her lashes, “They were trying to help.”

She’d liked how his expression was dubious and admiring all in one, liked how his fingers played blindly at the hardened wounds she saw only as imperfections.

“Seriously, _please_ remind me to run the other direction the next time S.H.I.E.L.D. tells me they’re _trying to help_.”

She liked, too, how he kissed her hard and deliberate again, anyway.)

The scars are raised up a little higher than usual on her hardly flat stomach—just beginning to show.

“He, she—I hope our spawn doesn’t want to do the whole damn superhero thing.  You’ll really have to tone down the coolness of it all.  We could even do a whole Spy Kids routine and be _secret_ secret agent parents,” he pauses as she shifts onto her back, craning to see the smirk that has lit his far too excited expression—and he presses a fleeting kiss to her dubiously wrinkled brow before continuing, “the closet could be a secret passageway.”

“Did you even see Spy Kids?” She challenges, rolling her eyes and hiding her smile against his shoulder.  “The kids probably should have _died_.  Spy Kids is not a good source to draw your inspiration from.”

He’s still smiling and she untangles a hand from between the sheets, poking his chin.

“Also, don’t think the ‘ _she_ ’ has been forgotten,” she settles her palm on her belly and grins at him, “ _you_ want it to be a her.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

“I can prove _everything_.  You are a remarkably shit liar for a _secret secret agent_.”

She puts extra teasing emphasis on their vocation and he pretends to be offended.

“You think I won’t tell on you, but I absolutely will.”

She laughs before she can stop herself, and this time his glare is less playful.

“ _Sweetie_ , I love you, but there is no _universe_ in which you’d actually tell Coulson you knocked me up. He’ll know when it’s actually appropriate for me to be on leave.”

The last thing she needs is to deal with more than just Lincoln’s overprotective tendencies—she’s pretty sure that if Coulson finds out she’ll be locked in a cushioned room, _at best._

“You realize he is going to make it somehow _my_ fault that you refused to tell him, right?”

She smirks at his dubious glower that comes out far cuter than it probably should, and tilts her forehead playfully closer to his.

“Yep.”

He shakes his head but fails to keep a straight face, smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he untangles his own free hand from between them, delicately running his fingers through her short, tangled hair.

“I love you.”

Xxx

It happens quickly.

They are on a routine mission, nothing they haven’t done a thousand times over—routine enough that it is just him and her and Coulson over the com.

“Is the package in sight?”

They are round the corner from it when his voice comes crackling into her ear, and Lincoln reaches his mic before she does.

“Affirmative.”

He is backed against the wall, positioned closer to the corner, and her shoulder is pressed near his in the cramped space where they are out of the sight of the cameras.

(Yo Yo had charted it all days ago.  It is easy.  It is routine. Daisy knows what she is doing.)

“Do you need it cleared?”

He is hesitating, peering round the corner into the room and then back at her when her hushed tone reaches him.

“There was someone there,” a pause, “I lost visual.”

They aren’t here to cause trouble.  They need the package for safekeeping and they need to get out.  It is a simple mission.

She thinks she sees a bead of sweat forming on his worry-lined brow.

“Okay, I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with you, but you’re going to need to figure it out pretty damn fast, because we need to _move_.”

He does not move.

“Something isn’t right.  Something doesn’t feel right.”

She feels her expression shift dubiously.

“Are you developing some telekinesis I should know about?”

He should be glaring at her, making a face, nagging her back—but he peers nervously back over his shoulder into the room.

Suddenly, she is nervous too.

“Yo Yo says you two are clear.”

Coulson’s voice comes back clear over the com, and Daisy shifts nearer to Lincoln and the edge of their cover.  Her arm brushes his and he looks down at her again, worry still tense in his brow.  She finds his hand near hers, playing her fingers loosely against his.

“Are you alright?”

Her words are genuine, and she studies closely how the lines shift in his face in response, brow furrowing.

His fingers don’t close around hers.

He nods and _God_ is he a terrible liar.

When she feels him shift away from her, she catches his wrist and holds it as he turns back, eyes meeting briefly.  She knows his com is on, because he has the worst habit of forgetting it that generally has only furthered Coulson’s desire to point a gun at his head.

“Stop worrying.”

She mouths the words; they are only for him.  His eyes are wide and she probably imagines his pulse quickening beneath where her fingers press into his skin.

His free hand comes to her stomach as he turns off the wall towards her, long fingers ghosting gently over the fabric of her uniform that is beginning to fit a little tighter than it probably should.

“Be careful,” is his response, before he brushes her lips across her brow.  Then, into his com as he turns, “Starting extraction.”

She fills the spot that opens when he disappears around the corner, peering after him and wishing he hadn’t instigated the uneasiness now eating at the pit of her stomach.

Nerves make mistakes and it is a routine mission.

There is nothing to worry about.

He calls the room clear and she follows in after him, moving towards the central lockbox where the package they are after should, by Yo Yo’s calculations, be.

She doesn’t get a visual on the guard Lincoln had spotted earlier.

He does.

_“Daisy.”_

She is listening to the lock, trying to sound out a resonance that will shimmy it free—and when he yells her name, it only startles her enough to find his eyes darting wide and protective over her shoulder as he raises his palms—and then the only molecules she hears are his.

“Lincoln, _wait_ —“ she hisses, leaping from her position and getting a fleeting visual of the shining weapon turned on her back as she raises her own arms—but not in attack.  “Don’t engage.”

It is an order but she doesn’t think he hears it—palms crackling as the cool metal presses into her spine.

“Lincoln, _stand down_.”

She is turning with the pressure of the gun on her back and he is looking past her hard and prickling at whoever brandishes it.

He isn’t _listening_.

There is a crackle of feedback in her ears that is probably Coulson catching her every other word in Lincoln’s mic and then the weapon makes a sharp movement that makes her start.

Sparks fly over her shoulder and the gun goes off.  

She cringes but there is no sharp pain—and it takes a moment for her to register Lincoln’s yell, to see the blood blossoming in the fabric at his shoulder.

Her heart stops as she rushes to him but he tells her through gritted teeth he’s fine, that she should get the package and they should go.

He is alright.  He is hurt but he will be alright.

Fire burns in her and she wants to scream at him right then and there.

She swallows hard instead.

“You shouldn’t have engaged.  I told you not to engage.”

“He was going to _shoot you_ , Daisy.”

“I _ordered_ you not to engage.”

A pause.

“He’s not going to stay stunned forever.”

Her rage feels like unleashed, it could be dangerous.

“I’m _pregnant_ , not _broken_.”

The com crackles in her ear.

xxx

If Coulson had It his way, Jemma would have given her a full check up before removing the bullet from Lincoln’s shoulder.  She is livid, and when she hisses that they will fix him before they even consider getting near her with a damn finger, they listen.

She doesn’t leave, arms crossed tight over her chest as she watches him hiss as Jemma pries the metal from his skin and meticulously wraps the wound.

Coulson has hardly said two words to her about anything, much less the secret she has kept from him.

She is so _angry_ and she wants to kick both men out when Jemma smiles weakly at her, inviting her to take Lincoln’s place on the examination table.

(She can see in her friend’s eyes that she feels betrayed by the secret, too.  She tries to hide it and it is valiant of her.)

“I’ve been to the doctor,” she tells Jemma pointedly, hand going unconsciously to the place the man had rubbed gel and the monitor.  “I just knew you guys would react…”

 _Like this,_ sticks on her tongue, and Coulson still won’t look at her.

(“Why would you keep this from me?”

The minute Daisy settles onto Mack’s jet for the ride back Coulson is in her ear, voice strained.  She looks at Lincoln, cringing and holding his shoulder where Mack has wrapped it to halt the bleeding.  His com is off.

She doesn’t answer.)

Lincoln hovers behind after the goop has been cleaned off her stomach and Coulson has dejectedly wandered out after Jemma.  He fidgets with the monitor, where Jemma has left a shot displayed—and she thinks he is zooming in tight on the little bean Jemma had softly identified as the healthy baby.

She is back on her feet, straightening her shirt.

And then he turns slowly towards her and she knows he was just finding the words.

“I was… way out of line.”

If it’s his apology, it falls short.

She is still so goddamn mad.  She turns from him because she can’t stand the quiet sadness in his eyes, gently reading her.

“Look, I just… I don’t know what came over me but I know I disrespected the hell outta you and your authority and I—“

He says respect and her attention snaps fiercely back to him in full, and every tendril of rage burning in her early slams back against her full force.

“Oh, that is _bullshit_ ,” she growls, taking an angry stride closer to him as fire swells in her chest.  “Don’t even give me any of the respect crap because that just now _was not it_.”

His nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply and she knows the signs—he is struggling, immensely, to keep his cool.

“Maybe it is bullshit, Daisy, but it’s the only thing you’re going to hear.  I’ve tried to tell you how I feel about you still being in the field in your condition, but—“

She scowls.

“My _condition_!? What, carrying our child is a condition now? Better lock me up so I don’t _endanger_ anyone.”  

Sarcasm eats icily at her tone and his jaw tenses.

“That isn’t remotely what I meant and you know that it isn’t.”

“Sure sounded like that was what you meant.”

They hold each others bitter stares a moment before he finally lets out the angry noise she has practically _seen_ building in his throat, turning away from her—muscles of his good arm going taut at his side.

She _hates_ being treated this way.  Treated as if she isn’t twice as strong as every last one of them.

Then he falls still and silent—still facing away from her.  

After a breath, his shoulders sag.

“Your whole world right now,” he starts, pausing awkwardly and shifting beneath her hard gaze, “Daisy, your whole world is keeping her safe.  I just… I want to keep her safe, too.”

And just like that the fire is quelled and she takes a magnetic step closer to him, reaching for his arm as she shifts him towards her, heart snagging in her chest.

His wet eyes settle on hers, and she sees what it is, sees what is nagging at him.

“I’m not implying you’re too weak to, you know I’d never be such a dick and I know that is fucking ridiculous.”

He thinks _he_ is too weak.

Something most click visibly in her eyes, because relief settles into his.

She runs her hands through his tousled hair, guiding him down so her lips can brush loving, reassuring across his forehead before coming even with those wide eyes of his.

“He’s going to be _so_ bummed to have such a goddamn stubborn dad.”

A smile tugs at his lips.

“Do you actually think it’ll be a boy or are you just trying to cause discourse?”

She nears him as a grin crosses her lips and kisses him slowly, fingers still twisting in his soft hair.

“The second one.”

She untangles her fingers from his hair, running them softly down his jawline before letting him go.

“I’m still very angry,” she informs him, even though she isn’t.

He rolls his eyes, reaching to gently move a stray hair from her eyes—fingers lingering beneath her jaw.

“Can I suggest something that will probably piss you off?”

She knows what he wants to say.

“I’m going to talk to Coulson,” she promises with a gentler smile that grows when he presses his fingers lovingly against her before drawing away.

“Good.”

(He is sadder than he is angry and it is almost worse.

“I didn’t want you to take me out of the field before I needed to be out.  You’re…protective, Coulson.  You can’t deny that.”

May is there, and she could _swear_ she smiles.

“I would say that is an understatement.”

He forgives her, and when she gives him a copy of the ultrasound Jemma has printed, she thinks there might be tears in his eyes.

“What are you going to name her?”

She almost laughs.

“You and Lincoln _really_ should get along better.”)


	2. Prequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested prequel to this little drabble.

“ _Screw_ your patients Lincoln,” her voice is static in the cell phone against his ear, and he thinks he might catch a hitching gag somewhere in his name that she quickly swallows back. “I have the goddamn flu and I need you more than they do.”

He isn’t that terribly concerned, not at first – but he leaves the med-bay and finds Bobbi near Coulson’s office to ask her if she’ll cover his rounds for him anyway, before slinking down the halls towards their bunk.

He finds her in the communal down the hall, an impressive shade of pale sea foam, huddled small over a toilet, still in her pajamas.  Her hair is pulled into a sweaty knot at the base of her skull and when she hears him step in, she glares tiredly up at him with glassy eyes and heated cheeks.

“I’m going to _kill_ Simmons.”

He watches sympathetically as she redirects her un-menacing scowl to the scuffed tile floor, and he sighs.

“Valiant mission. However, even _you_ have to get better before you can return to your regularly scheduled murdering.”

(He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that Jemma actually can’t be a proper scapegoat, considering the bug she’d come down with the week before wasn’t actually contagious.)

When she clutches at her stomach, bowing closer to the toilet, he moves to her side – kneeling on the cool floor beside her and settling for rubbing his fingers soothingly up and down her spine as she heaves.

After the puking begins to slow it takes a few stumbling returns back across the bathroom before he can help her back to bed, snuggling her in beneath a few sheets and leaving her with a bucket nearby – just in case. 

“Try to sleep,” he advises softly, taking the twisted hair tie she presses into his palm after she untangles it from her hair and pressing a soft kiss to her sweaty (but not flushed) forehead. “I’ll be back in a few.”

He cleans the bathroom, first – swiping some of Simmons’ coveted cleaning supplies from the closet in the lab where he _technically_ doesn’t know that she keeps them.  After he successfully returns the supplies he slips into the kitchen to grab a few bottles of water and returns to the bunk, to find her breathing softly.  He silently places the waters in a careful line along her bedside.

(She isn’t the biggest fan of needles, not since the Afterlife – he’s learned from trial and error and way more injuries than can be considered entirely normal in the space of five years.  If she is getting re-hydrated, she is getting re-hydrated the old fashioned way.)

He moves quietly to set up a chair and sink into it to watch her – but his thoughts are so damn loud he worries that they’ll be what disrupts her uneasy slumber.

She doesn’t puke again, luckily, but holds onto her stomach when she wakes a while later and he helps set up her pillows so she can sit comfortably – advising her to slowly, _slowly_ sip on the first bottle of water.

Her lips are dry and peeling, and crack a little when she musters up half of an exhausted smile at him.

“You aren’t making me get poked?” she teases, trying to wet her lips with her equally dry tongue and failing (the doctor side of him chides the boyfriend side for putting her comfort in front of her health – she _really_ needs a drip).

He sighs.

“I reserve the right to poke you or to have Bobbi poke you,” he tells her, raising a brow as he untwists the lid off a bottle and holds it carefully out to her. “You’ve gotta get through all of this water _and_ not dump your stomach contents again.  You manage that – no poke.”

She shakes her head but accepts the bottle between both of her shaky hands, holding it up to her lips and taking a long draw.

“ _Slowly_ ,” he reiterates, reaching to pull the bottle away from her. “You don’t wanna start puking again.”

She glares good-naturedly at him, smile still glowing softly in his eyes.

“All these _ultimatums_.”

He glares at her this time, and she smirks as she takes another slower sip of water, settling more fully back against the pillows he’s piled behind her.  He reaches to tuck a stray hair gently behind her ear, and she catches his hand as he pulls away – tangling her fingers through his.

“So what is the prognosis, Doctor?” She says teasingly after a while, still working on her first water bottle and holding his hand in hers.  He runs his thumb gently along the back of her hand and draws his eyes from her soft smile to where their fingers lie entwined on top of the sheets. “Lincoln?”

He clenches his jaw before peering slowly back up at her, hopefully not looking quite as guilty as he feels.

The raise of her brow tells him that he’s failed miserably. 

“Alright, so now I’m concerned, good work.”

He breathes in slowly, watching her nervously expectant gaze and carefully rearranging a few delicate words again and again in his mind.

“ _Lincoln_ ,” she prompts again, anxiously.

He lets out all the breath he has collected in one long exhale, forcing the question to tumble out with it.

“When is your period?”

She doesn’t have to answer – her mouth falls slightly open as the realization registers in her eyes.

“Oh,” a pause, “ _oh_.”

Her reaction is still forming, and he swallows – forcing himself to anticipate the absolute worst.  Her brow furrows as she stares at their entwined fingers, and he holds his breath as he waits for her gaze to slowly meet his again.

When it does, a long beat passes by.

And then, she smiles – just a twitch of one corner of her lips. 

It is his turn to watch her expectantly for a solid confirmation, eyes widening as he tries not to let the excited hope (that probably shouldn’t be present, all things considered) suddenly fluttering against his chest show in his expression.

(Though, he allows himself, _all things considered_ – her smile shouldn’t be quite so bright, either.)

“I think…” she mutters, past the still present tilt of her lips – and she shakes her head, letting out an odd sort of dry laugh – suddenly drawing her fingers back from his.  He watches as she presses her palm into the sheets above her stomach. “God, Coulson is going to _kill_ you, Lincoln.”

He can’t swallow back his smile anymore, and she laughs again, more brightly, when it pulls across his face.

“Never seen someone so happy to hear they’re going to be on someone’s hitlist,” she teases, reaching out a hand to run affectionately through his hair.

He shakes his head, still smiling, still in an odd sort of disbelieving haze.

“Drink your water,” he says as her palm settles against his jaw and she thumbs lovingly at the edge of his smile.  “I’m twice as inclined to hook you up to an IV now.”

She doesn’t even bother to glare at him as she draws another swallow of water, dropping her hand from his face to find his again and knot their fingers together over her stomach.


End file.
